


The 5 Stages of Grief

by GoldenBallsZ



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Completed, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-29
Updated: 2018-05-29
Packaged: 2019-05-15 14:45:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14792501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoldenBallsZ/pseuds/GoldenBallsZ
Summary: Donald Trump has been elected as the next President and America goes through the 5 stages of grief.





	1. Chapter 1

America gripped Tony, beads of sweat pouring down the sides of his face as he pinched his bottom lip between his teeth.  
  
The anchorwoman on the TV opened her mouth, and America heard the words that he had never guessed that he would ever hear in his entire fucking life.  
  
“Donald Trump has been elected as the 45th President of the United States....”  
  
Shock barrelled through America, his brain exploded into tiny fireworks, each spark landing and lighting up another burst of white shock—his organs ceased to function, his muscles locked and froze in place, he couldn't see anything through the flash of pure horror in front of his eyes—  
  
“Tony.”  
  
Bulbous red eyes turned to the statue named America in question. “Fuck..?” _Yeah?_  
  
“Can you... bring me back to your home planet?”   
  
America slapped himself for that thought, the alien beside him jumping a little at the loud sound of flesh upon flesh. _HE_ was America—and it was cowardly for him— _A HERO_ —to run from this situation, to run from his own government. He respected his people's decision, but really, sometimes, he wanted to fucking strangle some of them.  


* * *

  
  
**STAGE 1: DENIAL**  
  
America turned the TV off, stumbling into his bedroom—his brain still in a puddle of 'not making any sense' — and he switched on his laptop instead.  
  
Maybe, just maybe, he was dreaming all of these...and after a few rounds of zombie games, he would find himself and all of America back in the moment when Bernie Sanders was still running.  
  
The laptop screen darkened with a grisly image of the game character being devoured by the zombies—kind of like America right now— with a large 'GAME OVER' written across the screen.  
  
He shivered, trying to not let his eyes wander to the bottom right of the screen where the time and date is written. Slamming the laptop screen down, America picked up his phone with trembling hands, pressing open his Twitter feed.  
  
'DONALD TRUMP WON'   
'TRUMP IS THE NEXT PRESIDENT'  
'ORANGE IS THE NEW BLACK'  
'AMERICA IS DYING'  
'HOW DO I EMIGRATE TO CANADA'  
  
“No...no!”   
  
America dialled Japan's phone number.  
  
The ominous 'ring ring ring' was all America could hear as he hugged his pillows in the dark room.  
  
“Hello America-san? This is Japan speaking.”  
  
“JAPAN! JAPAN, PLEASE! LEND ME DORAEMON!”  
  
“W-what? Ameri—”  
  
“HE HAS A POCKET RIGHT?! HE HAS A TIME MACHINE IN THAT POCKET RIGHT?! I REALLY NEED THIS TIME MACHINE! PLEASE! LEND IT TO ME!”  
  
“Am—”  
  
“JAPAN! TRUMP WON! HE FUCKING WON!”  
  
“America-san!” Japan finally could form a full word without the screaming country butting in. “Doraemon does not exist in real life!”  
  
America's thumb found the red ' End Call' button.  
  
<Ring..ring...ring..>  
  
“What do you want, you—”  
  
“ENGLAND! LEND ME THE DOCTOR! HIS POLICE BOX! HIS WHATEVER I DON'T KNOW CAN TRAVEL THROUGH TIME RIGHT?!”  
  
“Are you kidding me—”  
  
“I REALLY REALLY REALLY REALLY—”  
  
“STOP SCREAMING IN MY FUCKING EAR YOU FUCKING WANKER!”  
  
America stared desolately at his phone as England hanged up on him.  
  
The phone slid from his sweaty grasp.  
  
America started laughing uncontrollably, doubling over as the image of Trump sitting in the oval office surfaced in his mind. Twisting the bedsheets in his hands, he scanned the room with teary eyes (from laughing).   
  
Tony opened the door just as America dived from his bed into the trashcan beside his table.  
  
“Fucking...bitch...?” _What are you doing?_  
  
“I just need...to...find a time machine...right? HahahahahahaHAHAHAHAHAHAHhahaHaHAha!”  
  
Tony exited the room in the next milisecond, leaving America's legs waving wildly in the air as he realised he was stuck in the tiny trashcan.  


* * *

  
**STAGE 2: ANGER**  
  
“AAAAAAAARRRRGH!”  
  
America did a 360 no-scope 420 BLAZE IT WOW SUCH ACCURACY MUCH COOL— his bullets driving itself into the bullseyes of each target with proficient accuracy.  
  
America didn't forget his ending heroic pose as the computerized sound effect of bombs exploding in the background and the amazing CG of an explosion lit up the screen behind him.  
  
America reloaded his shotguns, and selected 'EXTREME' on the difficulty screen panel.  
  
It was time to show off his fucking skills.  


* * *

  
  
America stepped out of the shower. It felt good to set an new record with an insanely high score—but the king of all problems hadn't made itself disappear yet.  
  
The plastic bottle of mineral water crumpled into dust in his fist.  


* * *

  
  
Canada opened the door to see his brother's dark stormy expression.  
  
“Oh, Alfred. I heard the news, I was about to call you...”  
  
“MATTIE!” America bawled, crushing the shorter country into his chest, “W-WHA AM I GONNA DOOO!”  
  
Canada patted his brother's back comfortingly as he dissolved into sobs and clinged to him like a koala, suffocating Kumajiro between.  
  
Kumajiro pushed the two countries apart with his bear strength, allowing a small gap for him to breathe. Canada wriggled Kumajiro out from between and let him free before America squeezed them in his arms again.  
  
“It's just four years, Alfred...you'll be fine...”  
  
“UWAAAAAAAA”  
  
“A-Alfie...I can't...breathe...”  
  
Kumajiro dragged America away by his ankle, and Canada pried America's limbs off him. “MATTIE! I FEEL SO GUILTY FOR WANTING MY PEOPLE TO DIE BECAUSE THEY WENT AND VOTED FOR TRUMP BUT I KNOW THAT I SHOULDN'T BE CURSING AT THEM BECAUSE THIS IS A FREE COUNTRY AND EVERYONE HAS THEIR OPINIONS AND THIS IS THE RESULTS OF A DEMOCRATIC ELECTION AND I SHOULD JUST ACCEPT IT BUT TRUMP! WHY IS TRUMP PRESIDENT MEXICO ALREADY HATES ME AND CHINA HAS BEEN GIVING ME GLARES RECENTLY AND HE'S BEEN ASKING ME TO RETURN HIS MONEY MORE OFTEN AND HOW THE HELL DID THE CANDIDATES GET NARROWED DOWN INTO ONLY HILLARY AND TRUMP WHAT HAPPENED TO AMERICA?!”  
  
Finishing his rant in a single breath, America gasped for air and endless tears started erupting out from his eyeballs again, drowning the Canadian in a flood of salty water.  
  
Kumajiro silently wiped up the ponds of tears forming on the floor with towels.  


* * *

  
  
**STAGE 3: BARGAINING**  
  
“Mr Jones—”  
  
America shook off the flustered hands of bodyguards, ploughing his way through to the Oval Office.   
  
“Mr Jones! The President—no Mr Jones! Please—”  
  
The door to the Oval Office banged open, slamming into the wall with such force that the plaster cracked.  
  
Barack Obama raised his eyebrow at the falling pieces of plaster, and that one painting of the First Lady which crashed to the floor.  
  
The bodyguards fussed over the wall and the painting, apologizing to the President profusely, and tried their best to drag the personified country out of the room.   
  
They couldn't move him one bit.  
  
America fixed his glasses under the intense stare of his President, bowing politely. “Sorry Sir, for barging in like this.”   
  
Just when Obama thought America was going to continue the conversation in a prim and proper manner, he practically shot to the large wooden desk, cupping his face with both hands in earnest—puppy eyes in full force.  
  
“Sir, please, could you stay for another four years? Ya know, just tweak the Constitution a little? C'mon Brackie, you can do it right?”  
  
“Alfie, you know I can't do it—”  
  
“Sir, please?”   
  
Obama stared at the pouting anthropomorphic personification of America who was blinking with all his might—trying to look as cute as possible.   
  
“No.”  
  
“Why? Come on, man, I'm America!”  
  
“That does not justify anything, Alfred. Plus I wouldn't want to serve another term with you around—eight years is quite enough, thank you.”  
  
A bodyguard still in the office whistled under his breath. “Sick burn.” Another more experienced bodyguard smacked him on the head, ordering him to get the painting and out of the office quietly.  
  
America deflated, sprawling across the table and messing up the President's papers. Obama sighed, “Alfred, remember to sort my papers after your trip to Macdonalds.”   
  
“How did you know I was going to Macs?” America mumbled into the papers.  
  
“It's been eight years and you think I still can't get a grasp on how you function?” Obama chuckled, plucking the sad, depressed ball of America off his desk. “Now shoo. I still have a lot of work to do. Especially with Mr Trump coming in. Oh, that reminds me, you'll be introduced to him tomorrow.”  
  
America crumpled to the floor as cruel reality stabbed him in the heart.  


* * *

  
  
**STAGE 4: DEPRESSION**  
  
America ordered a truck of hamburgers and soft drinks, holing up under his warm blanket as he scrolled through the internet listlessly.  
  
He threw his 78th wrapper away into the overflowing trashcan, sucking on the straw for the sweet carbonated Mountain Dew.  
  
The door to his bedroom was kicked open by none other than the posh gentlemanly England.  
  
“AMERICA! GET UP! We have a World Conference today!”  
  
America threw the empty cup of Mountain Dew at the British country with a poker face.  
  
England cursed at him, smacking the Macdonald cup away.  
  
“France! Get in here! We're going to drag his sorry arse to the meeting!” England popped his head back out, calling for the Frenchman admiring a vase of exquisite flowers.  


* * *

  
  
America was drawing circles on the carpet in the corner, a dark aura on par with Russia's hanging over him.  
  
Germany stood at the head of the table, resting his forehead in his palm. “Iz he going to be okay?”  
  
Canada spoke up for once, and the countries finally noticed him for once. “He'll get over it by tomorrow morning...I guess...”  
  
“Oh, Canada! When did you get here?” Denmark grinned at Canada from across the table.  
  
“I've been here since the start...”  
  
“America~do you want some pasta? It'll cheer you up!” Italy conjured a plate of steaming pasta out of nowhere, offering it to the depressed country.   
  
America continued drawing circles.  
  
“No pasta? Or do you want some fettuccini? Or...” Italy produced all his cuisine out of thin air, placing them one by one in front of the curled-up American.  
  
“Vell, let's start the conference vithout America today.” Germany sighed, launching into his presentation as the screen flickered to life with his slides.

* * *

  
  
“America-san. The Conference is over. You should go home and take a rest.” It was Japan's turn to persuade him.  
  
America only continued munching on a burger in reply.  
  
“He's too deep in his own mind to even hear us anymore. Just leave him be.” England sipped on his tea, glancing up occasionally.  
  
China even did an awesome set of kung-fu to try and get America out of his depression, but America didn't even look up from the carpeted floor.  
  
“Oh...right...” America muttered, startling the countries as he finally raised his head. “I have to sort Brackie's papers...”  
  
America proceeded to float out of the room like a ghost, the dark cloud of doom and gloom following after him.  
  
“Looks like _Amérique_ will be fine after all, if he can still remember his paperwork.” France shrugged his shoulders, copping a feel of Germany's firm butt as he blew goodbye kisses to the countries, exiting the room.  
  
Germany jumped at France's roving hands and Italy rushed over to help smack away France's kiss.  


* * *

  
  
**STAGE 5: ACCEPTANCE**  
  
America awoke to a new state of mind.   
  
Donald Trump will be his next President.   
  
And for this four years, he will do his ultimate best to prevent the country from crumbling under the reign of Trump, and protect it with all his might.  
  
America suited up, fixing his tie up smartly, and flexed his muscles in the mirror.  
  
His eyes narrowed on his biceps. Hmm. His muscles are not intimidating enough.   
  
America decided to go to the gym right after the meeting with Trump—he needed to get rid of the calories he acquired from all those burgers and soft drinks yesterday, plus he needed to buff himself up more so he can threaten Trump more effectively if Trump ever decides to release a stupid policy.   
  
He was going to meet the man in 50 minutes.   


* * *

  
  
“Morning Sir!” America chirped, giving the President a greeting pat on the back—which made the President stumble and almost face-plant into the floor.  
  
“Oops, sorry.” America grinned, “Sometimes I forget about my strength.”  
  
“You seem to be in better sprits, Alfred.” Obama smiled, giving a lighter pat on the back to the personified country. “Finally in the acceptance stage?”  
  
“Hell yeah.” America gave his President a thumbs-up, “I'm gonna give Donald Duckie the shock of his life.”  
  
“Mr President, Mr Trump is here.” A bodyguard opened the door, announcing the President-elect's arrival.  
  
Obama nodded, warning America silently with a gaze to **_not_** call Trump a 'Donald Duck' as he smoothed out his suit.  
  
“Welcome to the White House, Mr Trump.”  


* * *

  
  
**BONUS**  
  
<During the interview after Trump met Obama>  
  
“The meeting was supposed to be...around 10 to 15 minutes...we were going to get to know each other—we had never met each other—uh..I have great respect...the meeting lasted for almost an hour and a half and could have gone on for longer...uh...we discussed many many things—like the high flying assets and uh...some of the difficulties...”  
**(A/N: these are the exact words Trump said in the interview)**  
  
Inside Obama's mind:  
_Oh yeah? The meeting went on for an hour and a half thanks to dear Alfred._  
  
Inside Trump's mind:  
_Holy motherfucking gods! There was an anthropomorphic personifed America?! Obviously the meeting could go on for longer!_  
  
**THE END.**

* * *

  
Should I write Trump and Alfred's meeting? Hmmmmm....it's a little hard to write though...since I really can't tell how Trump would react—not that I already can't tell what the heck is going on in his tiny brain already.


	2. The First Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Obamas meet the Trumps.  
> ((I'm not American, so some things may be inaccurate. Please forgive me. ))  
> (( And i kind of wrote this years ago haha))

“Dude, your hair is so cool!” America gave Trump a 'winning American smile'—as Brackie calls it— pumping Trump's hand up and down until Obama elbowed him discreetly to let go before his **_superhero_** strength broke the President-elect's arm.   
  
_Yeah, it looks like the rump of Donald Duck dyed in orange-blond and stuck on backwards on your head._  
Alfred snickered in his mind. He had no intentions to make Trump his enemy by saying that in his wrinkly face. Four years of working with someone that disliked you intently was never good—and so dear Alfred utilised all his acting skills and charm to try to cover up his own disdain for the President-elect.  
  
But perhaps, it was the wrong thing to say as Trump's squinty eyes squinted further in skepticism. Trump may had his Twitter account wrestled away from him, but he still knew the jokes people made about his hair. Regardless, the orang(e)-utan smiled and thanked the young man before him for the 'compliment'.  
  
“My name's Alfred F. Jones! Nice to meet you, Mr Trump! I am the anthropomorphic personification of the United States of America!”  
  
“Uh...personification what?” Honestly, the word 'anthropomorphic' didn't exist in the limited vocabulary of Mr Trump, so he didn't understand jackshit.  
  
“He's the country in human form.” Obama kindly explained, “This may seem like a weird and shocking thing, but every nation has their own personification. This young, boisterous man here is Alfred, America in another sense.”   
  
Trump's disbelieving look towards America showed that he clearly couldn't process this piece of groundbreaking news.  
  
“Don't worry, Mr Trump, you will have more time to adjust to this information. For now, since we have an interview later, shall we move on?” Obama gestured to the exit of the Oval Office.  
  
“Oh. Yes, yes, of course.” Trump decided to push this matter to the back of his mind and followed the 'founder of ISIS' out into the spacious corridor. America trailed behind Trump, giving a discreet middle finger to the oompa-loompa looklike.  
  
A bodyguard almost couldn't keep his straight face when he spotted that rebellious finger. America winked at the bodyguard.  
  
“...35 bathrooms, 28 fireplaces...” The President began the tour of the White House, pointing to some of the paintings and statues, explaining their origin and their artistic meaning. America tuned out almost immediately, he had heard this introduction over hundreds of times—  
  
_Hey! 28 fireplaces! Trump could 'suntan' himself in there, and more preferably roast himself to death in there..._  
  
Donald was just nodding in tandem to Obama's passionate introduction on this particular painting of the First President, George Washington. He couldn't care less about all these art and decorations as long as they did their job by looking nice.  


* * *

  
  
Meanwhile, the Slovenian-born and future First Lady; Melania Trump, was having her first meeting with the current First Lady, Michelle Obama.  
  
“Nice to meet you, Mrs Obama.” Melania greeted, her mind going into overdrive as she did her best to keep all the awkwardness away from her voice. The plagarising incident—those words of “I wrote this with as little help as possible” she so confidently declared at the start of her speech—oh god.  
  
“Welcome to the White House, Mrs Trump!” Michelle showed no discomfort/hostility as she guided her to the plush seats in the center of the room, “Would you like some coffee? Or tea?”  
  
_'I would like to get out of here as soon as possible'_ was what Melania thought as she thanked the First Lady. “I'll have some tea please.”   
  
“Here, tea imported from England; they taste heavenly.” Michelle handed over a warm cup of tea accompanied with a big smile.  
  
<Boring women talk ensues>  
  
<Talking about their hair, your fashion sense is incredible yeah, I love your exercise campaign let's move! Talking about how is it like to be a First Lady, service is top notch 10/10>  
  
<Talking about their kids like all mothers do, yeah my kid did this and that and their grades are like this and that, oh yeah I want to have grandkids too can't wait for Malia and Sasha (Obama) to get married blablabla>  
  
“I'll give you a tour on the White House.” Michelle Obama placed down her now empty coffee cup. Melania's nerves have settled down by now, and she gave a more natural smile as she followed Michelle to the closest room.  
  
And there they met their husbands, touring the White House as well.  


* * *

  
  
“Oh Michelle, are you giving a tour to Mrs Trump as well?” Obama greeted his wife with a hug, as did Trump with Melania.  
  
“Yes, she's been a great company, and I wanted her to know her future residence better.” Michelle let go of Obama, turning to the oddly silent America.  
  
“Alfred, have you met Mrs Trump? Come here, I'll introduce you to her.”  
  
America almost forgot that the women were meeting today as well. He stuck out a hand, giving another charming smile of his. “Hey! I'm America! You can call me Alfred!”  
  
“Hello, I'm Melania Trump.” Melania grasped the strong hand America offered.  
  
Melania was eyeing the eye-candy (Alfred) before her. _Damn_ , she thought, _if only he was my son, or if only I was born 20 years younger._ Instead, she was stuck with this 70 year old pussy-grabbing grandpa who can't even get his own tiny dingalingdong to stand up these few years.  
**(A/N: my mum's “if only he was my son” inspired this)**  
  
Everyone decided to skip over the part where they explained Alfred's origin to Melania. After all, she would find out in a few months.   
  
America took over the tour, excitedly rambling about George Washington helping in laying the cornerstone of the White House in 1792, and moving in together with President John Adams in 1800, earning puzzled looks from Mr and Mrs Trump.  
  
Everyone decided to ignore that part again.  
  
America had spent his time moping around when he heard the news of Trump being elected, so he didn't prepare a surprise he always did for every President-elect having their first visit. Regardless, America wasn't about to give up on this tradition, so he came up with an impromptu plan.  
  
President Obama guessed as much when America guided the group to the largest room in White House: the East Room.  
  
“As a mean of welcoming our next President Trump, I have prepared a surprise for him! Please take your seats over here!” America grinned cheekily, pulling out armchairs with speed, placing them in the center of the large room.  
  
Michelle and Melania admired the shape of those arm muscles under America's suit.  
**(A/N: I'm admiring them too *nosebleed)**   
  
The four took their seats, patiently waiting for America as they made some small talk, and tea was served again. They could hear hushed whispers of “dude”, “help”, “please”, coming over from Alfred and the bodyguards, but they couldn't hear the exact content of what they were talking about.  
  
“Just once, seriously. Just once! Help me out, dude!” America pleaded the last of the guards—a tough, ol' buddy who won't take any kind of bullshit.   
  
Tough Man just gave America an icy glare.  
  
America's puppy eyes were in full blast again.  
  
Tough Man melted into Soft Ol' Man and he nodded curtly. “Just this once, Mr Jones. Or I'll throw you off the balcony.”  
  
America fist-bumped Soft Ol' Man—who didn't return the gesture—and hit his buff shoulder instead.  
  
The Trumps and Obamas were comparing their kids again; like all parents do, when the East Room suddenly dropped into darkness. Bodyguards drew the curtains shut simultaneously, blocking out all the light. Melania gave a surprised yelp and clutched her husband's arm—as if Trump could do anything to protect her haha.  
  
“W-what is going on, Obama?” Trump's alarmed voice rang out in the darkness. He even forgot to address the President with a 'Mr'.  
  
Before Obama could answer, a spotlight lit up the floor before them.   
  
And standing in all of his glory, with an American flag draped over his suit, was America in a party hat. Music began to blast from the speakers.  
  
“1, 2, 3...” America swished his hips and snapped his fingers to the beat of the music, or more specifically: Party in the USA.  
  
“ _I hopped off the plane at LAX, with a dream and my cardigan._ ” America sung into the standing microphone, picking it up and dancing with it.  
  
“ _Welcome to the land of fame excess, am I gonna fit in_ ,” America winked at the ladies. “ _Jumped in the cab, here I am for the first time..._ ”  
  
Melania and Trump were staring agape at the young American dancing like there was no tomorrow, while the Obamas clapped to the music.  
  
“ _SO I PUT MY HANDS UP, THEY'RE PLAYING MY SONG, AND THE BUTTERFLIES FLY AWAY~_ ”   
  
The chorus was explosive as the spotlight strobed on and off, and the bodyguards joined in, dancing in the background all awkward and stiff. Still, they did their best with the lack of a disco ball.  
  
The four were getting sucked into the music—despite the eye-blinding spotlight switching on and off—swaying and clapping to America's music as America whipped the flag and microphone around.  
  
“YEAH~ IT'S A PARTY IN THE USA!” America did a twirl with his standing microphone, the thrown American flag landing perfectly on the floor, spread open to reveal the full glory of its stars and stripes.  
  
The Obamas clapped fervently, with Michelle whooping for Alfred. Donald and Melania clapped just as enthusiastically, but with a “the fuck is going on here” look.  
  
“Alfred does this surprise welcome to every new President. It's kind of a tradition.” Obama laughed, thoroughly enjoying this as it reminded him of how he had the same expression as Trump on his face when a drunk America welcomed him in with a striptease.  
  
Naturally, the bodyguards dragged America off the desk before he could take off his pants. Michelle still jokingly expressed her disappointment in not getting enough those beautiful moments for her eyes.  
**(A/N: Even Obama would go gay for Alfred, I mean, who wouldn't?)**  
  
“Did you enjoy it?” America came up to the four, sweeping into a deep bow.   
  
“Uh, oh, yes..yes definitely.” Trump regained his senses. The strobelight was still flashing behind his eyelids.  
  
“That's not the end though, we have something more exciting coming up! Let's make our way to the Rose Garden!” Alfred opened the doors of the East Room, inviting the four out. The breathless guards followed, envying America for not breaking a sweat after dancing like a madman.   


* * *

  
  
Arriving at the Rose Garden, America allowed the Trumps to admire the roses for a little while before he dropped the bombshell on them.  
  
“Mr Drumpf, please hold on to this red rose.” America had thoughtfully shaved off all the thorns with a small knife he hid in his boot.   
  
“What?” Trump thought America had called his name wrongly.   
  
America blinked innocently at Donald. “The rose.”  
  
Trump decided that it was his ears playing a trick on him as he took the red rose from America. Obama glared at America. America ignored Obama's warning glare.  
  
“Please stand against this tree...in case you feel like leaning against it. Oh, and hold the red rose above your head.”  
  
“Mr Jones, would you please tell us what you're doing?” Melania asked, her questioning gaze whipping back and forth between her husband and the mischievous grin on America's face. She had a bad feeling about this. A very bad feeling.  
  
“Oh, there's no need to worry, it's—” America whipped out two Glock 27 out of nowhere, “just a surprise gift.”  
  
Suddenly, Trump understood why he needed to lean against the tree.  
  
The bodyguards tensed up, hesitating between pouncing on America to stop him from killing the next President or returning back to their positions to enjoy the show.  
  
“W-wait, Alfred! Don't tell me you're doing what I'm thinking you're doing.” President Obama held up a hand, worry written all over his face. Michelle held a hand to her chest, wondering where the hell did those two pistols come from.  
  
Melania was close to freaking out. “Y-you...”  
  
“Mr Trump, please do not move, or the bullet might miss the rose and hit you instead.” Alfred grinned, aiming the pistols carelessly. Trump froze at the gun barrels pointing at him.  
  
“I do not agree to this! Stop this immediately Alfred!” Obama stepped up front, “This is too big of a risk, stop it!”   
  
Before the President or the bodyguards could stop him, America fired.  
  
He didn't just stand there and fire.  
  
America jumped, somersaulting into the air—and shot twice while he was airborne.  
  
Melania's scream rose over the two loud bangs.  
  
Trump spewed curse words as he saw the two bullets moving towards him in slow-motion, aiming for his brain. He closed his eyes, indignant anger rising in him as he never envisioned that he would die just months before he became President.  
  
Melania's scream continued.  
  
Michelle's scream joined in.  
  
Obama was shaking America by the shoulders.  
  
The bodyguards were rushing over to Trump.  
  
Trump felt things falling in his hair and face.  
  
He opened his eyes to find that he was still alive. And that he was covered in rose petals and wood chips. Two bullets were buried in two smoking holes in the trunk above his head—not in his brain.   
  
“ALFRED!” Obama was just short of punching the nation.  
  
“Dude, calm down.” America turned his serious eyes to the angered President, “Did you really think I would put my next President in danger if I didn't have confidence in my skills? I, am the United States of America. I wouldn't do anything to harmful to my country.”  
  
Obama processed his words, taking a deep breath to calm himself. Rushing over to the dazed Trump, Obama apologized for America's surprise gift. Trump held onto the guards for support, pushing himself up with his wife in tears, fussing over him.  
  
“Are you okay?” Melania ran her hands over Trump's terrible hairstyle, and over his face.  
  
“I..I'm okay. Yeah.”   
  
Trump looked up to the whistling America, twirling his pistols with expert ease. “You have some guts, Mr Jones.” He was still breathless from the horrifying experience, and he was very much angry at America's not-so-welcoming surprise gift.  
  
“What can I say? I'm the hero!” America gave a thumbs-up and a pat on the back for Trump.  
  
Donald laughed, slapping America on the back in return. “You owe me an apology and a favour for letting you shoot at me without warning! Next time you'll be the one tacked on the walls while I practice my aiming with you as my target!”   
  
“I'll fulfill those when you are inaugurated!” America gave another pat.  
  
“I like you, kid.”  
  
“Don't worry, I don't like like like you don't you know?”   
  
“What?”  
  
“HAHAHAHAHA!”  


* * *

  
  
**5 minutes before the interview**  
  
“So, he's really..uh...America?” Trump gulped the warm tea down, still trying to decrease his heartbeat.  
  
“Yes. Yes he is.” Obama sighed.  
  
And for the first time, Donald Trump finally believed Barack Obama's words.  
  
  
  



End file.
